Seabrine and Saltwater
by GlowingPatchwork
Summary: Sometimes, in the fleeting time it takes for a butterfly to escape a rainstorm, she remembers him. [Cliff x Claire]


Fireflies only glow at night.

Whether this refers to the literal, buzzing little insects that flit about when the slithering twilight flutters about its cerulean backdrop, flicking splatters of varied brooding indigo's and twirling corals to expand and light up the plain canvas.

Whether it may only be a metaphor, sent to respect those that spend each night bolt upright in bed, unable to catch a wink of sleep to save their withering lives. They understand that they do have somewhere to arrive at when the drowsy sun hoists itself up, glowing softly in shades of delicate amber and peach; judgmental school, vexing work, or even simply checking a mundane task off a checklist of other mundane tasks, there was always something to do.

Most creatures aren't able to hold grudges.

Yes, cicadas have memories, and a peppy, speckled little Labrador may well be able to recall the time when it was roughly slapped by an abusive owner, but that doesn't mean furiosity or complaint sparks inside their tiny yet fiery hearts, that thump as quietly as the sweet little pitter-patter of a child's elated feet; no. They simply have the wit to avoid the things that harm them, and associate objects with certain events or meanings. But why couldn't humans be similar?

I have measured out my entire life in coffee spoons, and have come to the conclusion that all life fades.

Down, down, down, into the softly encasing arms protruding from the inky, twilight noir slithering around and inside the young individual, as she perches silently before the glowing monitor, taking each comical comment or humorous observation in with a ghost of a smile flickering on her lips. Her honey-blonde locks droop about her cream, but gaunt face, brushing with a tender hint beside the pale freckles that dust her sun-dyed cheeks.

She remembers him, sometimes; when the wind possesses a mild chill and the rural air is just crisp enough to accentuate the scent of dewdrops, glimmering and alive as an intricately weaving spider. She remembers him at the feel of a warm beverage, flush against her frigid fingers as she dispelled petite puffs of icy smoke high into the tumbling air, with bright lightning stars collapsing all around her. She sees him in her companion Ann, who has also been greatly affected by his departure; her tan flooded out from her pastel-pink cheeks and her bright eyes visibly dimmed. She never welcomes customers in quite like she used to, with vigour and a charming eagerness.

Claire misses him. She misses him atop Mother's Hill, where the persuasive wind envelops and roughly shoves her around the rocky pewter cliffs, embracing her with just enough force to resurrect a freezing yet burning sensation, coursing through her winding veins and blaze up her cold heart with a faint recollection. How pathetically poetic it seems, to think of his mild stutter, awkward glances and eventual tender kisses upon such a dramatic backdrop, that will slowly crumble into the hissing, foaming sea, along with her and anyone else.

In the end, we'll always return to the sea.

Oh, but how ridiculous it is. The cycle of life is a painful, yet inescapable one, forcing heavy iron cubes to possess people, and hold them in the eternal loop with things like "love" and "joy."

How embarrassing to be human.

Her mind whirls, psychedelic colours flashing vividly behind her fading cerulean eyes, and lets out yet another intended yell. However, the flames inside her can only ever be extinguished gradually, so while she pictures the fierce lioness inside her raising her gargantuan head and announcing her innermost opinions and feelings to the world, she is reduced to simply letting out a pained croak, and switching tabs. Can't remember, she reassures herself, can't think.

That was how she threw her life away.

But what can you do, when a familiar but opposing soul stalks you; looms behind your hunched figure with wistful, calculating eyes?

You sink. Down into the abyss of nonchalance, dissociative passiveness, and silent screams. So, ever so slowly, his ghost sunk her. Like a majestic, capable galleon, bombed with soul and crushed into the ripping tides, hurling salty foam upon the shore and violently tearing sediment and sand away from it. Yanking chunks off her sturdy exterior, one by one. Then seeping inside; the icy waves tauntingly letting out soft sloshing sounds under her shattered flesh.

And gradually; so slowly that it's hard to even acknowledge it, she began to drown. Crumbled into sea brine and bubbly fragments, she drowned. With a gargantuan scribble of flurried exchanges and unspoken words as her seizing weights, she drowned. Down, down, down and down, she drowned.


End file.
